


Miserere mei Deus

by TalentedLoser



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen, Minecraft, Minecraft!AU, king!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There stood only four men in front of a blood-stained chair. The king dropped bows and arrows in quivers at their feet.</p><p>"So, you all want the throne. Is that right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miserere mei Deus

**Author's Note:**

> That King Gavin LP got me in a mood to write. I suppose there's some very minor spoilers to my other story, aka my Mad King story, but since I am not writing scenes that come after his second reign, this is fine. The title is latin for "Have mercy upon me, O God", which is pretty much the motto near the end of the story. As always, you may come talk to me on tumblr (themadkingreigns) about the AU in general. I'm always talkative. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Inside a darkened room—no light was ever going to show itself again in that room, not after everything it had seen—there stood four men in front of a blood-stained chair. Not a word was spoken between these men. Although the men were friends and were close in that regard, they had nothing to say to one another. They were alike: all except one were previous kings to the throne. The First King, as was titled by the people, was the most liked by all. He brought the kingdom to its prosperous standing between other kingdoms surrounding them, but he was growing tired. Perhaps not only because of time, but because of other reigns and kings who have held power over his people. He stood as a knight, dressed in the finest clothing because of the current king, and he stood under the chair on the ground with the rest. He knew how to reign; he knew he was meant to be the true holder of the crown.

Beside him was a much younger man, another knight, another previous king. He was a fighter, hence why the people proclaimed him the Mighty King. He fought to protect his people from threats, inside and out, and fought for the people for what was true and right. To some, he was the truest and purest king to have ruled the kingdom. He cared for the people, and made sure they were living in comfort instead of poverty. And although some had never forgiven the king for his actions against the First King, they could not deny his involvement in making sure the kingdom was okay, in the sense that it was not being destroyed. For that, they were thankful.

With the two was a man who had never set his place on the throne. He was, and possibly could always be, a second-hand to the throne. To those in the village, he was known as the Bearded Knight. He had not minded the job. It was well-sought by other villagers in the kingdom, and he had aided the strongest in the land, and perhaps in the realm in which they resided. He had seen what the throne had done to others, to his friends, and had seen what destruction it wrought to the kingdom. He knew the previous kings in the room, knew what could happen if they were to take the throne again, and knew it had to be changed. History would not repeat itself, and he would do his best to make sure of it.

The final man, another king from another time, stood on the balcony looking down on the town. When he took the throne the first time, the chants and proclamations of the Rose King did not bode well. He was disinterested in ruling over the town. The only reason he was king was—well, it was another time, after all. There was no need to reflect on the past. But perhaps he still was disinterested, judging by the lack of motivation for the throne again. But when he first gave up the crown to the Mighty King, to his friend, those around him could and would not stop speaking of him as though he were a mistake in the first place, as though he could not rule a kingdom at all. He wished to prove them wrong, all wrong. What he could do to a town, he thought, as he stared down at the villagers unaware of the movements in the castle.

Suddenly, a door slammed open; all men turned toward the noise. There stood another man, a younger lad, adorned in a golden crown that had rested on many heads. He desired no robe, as it reminded him of previous kings. He always said he would not be like other kings. Rather, he would be different. But most eyes rested on the broken crown against his head. To say it had been through Hell was an understatement, and no one spoke of why that was. They merely understood its history, from the stains of blood inside the crown, to the numerous cracks around the crown. They accepted it without any other thought.

But this king, the Foolish King as was declared by the people, was decorated with a smile on his face as he walked toward the men, his old friends from years past, and perhaps still friends. From his reign, the village lived and thrived. It was uplifted from the shadows of previous kings, from the destruction they inevitably brought forth, and they rebuilt under a cheerier king—and he certainly made sure he would not destroy the town. And maybe they had some chaos from the games the king would declare in the middle of the village, causing nothing but harmless annoyances (or destruction, as some houses were damaged from his little games), but it was all in good spirit and fun. The mood was joyous, and the people thrived on it.

And the people did, except the four men in the room with their king. No, these knights knew the man would not help better the town; the king would rather play and bring chaos than stop chaos in its tracks. He was always meant to play the fool. The village would not survive another year under his reign, and they all knew he had to give up the crown. The person who would take the crown, though, was another decision to be made, and it was not made in the slightest. Instead, the knights fought over who would overthrow the current king, and who deserved it more. So there they stood in the darkened room, after telling their king, friend, former partner in fighting, that he was not fit to wear the crown. And the king just smiled.

The king dropped bows and arrows in quivers at their feet to give to the knights inside his room.

“So, you all want the throne. Is that right?”

The men made no movement toward their king. Instead, they stared at him with a sort of darkness in their eyes. The king had seen something similar before: it was the thirst of the throne overwhelming their desire to stay away from it. He made a notion toward the bows and arrows. “Well, aren’t you going to pick up your weapons and ammunition?”

So, hesitantly, each knight did. And while they prepared for whatever sort of battle was to happen, the king stood on one of the steps toward the throne, looking down on his men. Steps surrounded almost the entire chair, but he stood right at the front, knowing full well the men would have their eyes on the coveted prize. They were strong, and he knew that from fighting with them for years. It was no doubt one of them would take the throne from him. But he also knew he stood no chance fighting against them. So why must he have to get his own hands dirty? He had already done that to claim the throne the first time. There was no need to prove it again.

The knights held a bow in their hands and looked up toward their king. The king relished in their positions—for once, they stood below him. It felt divine. Perhaps the other kings had felt this, and realized they never wanted to give it up. But, he merely held his smile and told the knights to scatter about the room in front of him, and keep themselves evenly distanced between one another. They did not move very far, but they were far enough away to fire arrows as needed. The knights knew what was to be said, but the king wanted his words to be heard. After all, he was their ruler.

“You may not kill another man in this room. However, the person who proves to be the strongest and most able to fight by the end of battle will be rewarded the kingdom.”

The Mighty King—the Foolish King’s second-hand in command—turned to him. “And when’s the end of battle?”

The Foolish King shrugged, and said: “Whenever I feel as though all others are unable to fight.”

It was enough for the fighter. All knights prepared their bows and pointed their arrows at those close to them. His friends—his deeply loved brothers in arms—were ready to fight each other for a mere throne, a gold crown, and a kingdom ready to collapse. And all the king could do was chuckle at the sight. What fools they were, he thought. All for a silly game. He raised his arm to signal the beginning of the battle. He knew his friends would not go so far as to kill one another, but he hoped he would not have to bury any men. It would, in a lesser sense, be considered a tragedy.

His arm dropped, and arrows flew.

The king could not believe it. More blood was spilt in the room, more shed on the bricks that had seen countless fights within its walls. The first to strike another was the First King, the closest knight and friend to the king. He—a man who had not equipped himself much with weaponry—was precise on the shot. It connected the young man in the shoulder, who had cried out in agony when the arrow pierced his body. The First King had backed away from the young man to reload his weapon, just as the Rose King was doing in front of him. Meanwhile, the king himself looked toward the other two fighters, to see the Mighty King roll out of the way of an arrow from the Bearded Knight, who was slow in reloading his weapon. The Mighty King had been in numerous battles with everyone in the room, and was an expert at wielding such a weapon. His posture and relatively calm stature was a trait even the king was jealous of, as he watched the arrow fly in the air and hit the other in the leg. And when the Bearded Knight knelt to grasp at the wound, to somehow ease the pain, the Mighty King rose and reloaded, and aimed toward the others across the room from them.

The king was so enamored by the fight that he could not look away. He could not keep his eyes off the fighters and their fight, to see blood pour out from wounds, yet they continued to fight for a silly chair in a room, for a kingdom ready to fall. He listened to all sorts of cries and grunts, from all the men receiving some kind of wound from the game the king staged, to the men giving it all they could in the measly arrows they were given. It was truly a sight all should witness when given the opportunity. He only wished he had staged it outside for the villagers to see.

Perhaps the outside would have been more beneficial. Beneficial, in the sense of no surprises taking place—surprises were not needed in the kingdom.

The Bearded Knight continued to kneel near the balcony, blood seeping from the wound in his leg. And when he rose, he looked toward the open door in the room, where one king had passed through before the battle. There was a man there, a bow in his hands. He heard the battle next to him continuing on, his friends—who he wished he could call family, due to the past they had with one another—yelling and fighting one another. But he knew the man. It was another previous king, one that was never to be mentioned at all, nor would air be wasted on. He swore the man was standing in the doorway, but as he looked around, no others looked to him. Instead, they were caught up in their fight, or in the fight, as the king merely stood under the throne to watch. The Bearded Knight looked back to the man in the doorway, who then had his bow ready, loaded, and willing to strike. He knew the man saw him; he knew he had to load his own bow. History, he thought, would not repeat, never for that man.

So when he aimed it, he was surprised he was not attacked first. Instead, the Bearded Knight was given the chance to strike first. And while everything around him started to blur and blend, he aimed the arrow right to the man’s head, and fired. He hung his head in pain before he could see whether it made contact or not, but it was not long before he felt an arrow graze his arm, stinging him all the while. He opened his eyes and looked up, but only the Rose King stood there, bloodied, dirtied, ready to strike again. The Bearded Knight tried looking around him, to find the man (why weren’t they worried about the man!), but it was clear he had to focus on the battle once more. Perhaps he was merely seeing things, due to his state.

Perhaps he was going—he shook his head, and continued to fight.

It was true, though: there was another man in the room. He had climbed the stairs to the throne room, one that he was accustomed and familiar with, and belonged in. Perhaps he had left a trail of blood from the sword he dragged up the stairs, but it was hardly a river. The king had not guarded himself well, and the man was disappointed. Did he not teach the boy well? He could’ve sworn the old assassin would know better. The man merely thought to thank the king, as he did not have to kill so many to get to his desired goal. Regardless, he made no move to stay quiet, or come without surprise, but was rather surprised himself to see his old knights fighting one another, while a king watched on. Perhaps the boy had learned something. Although, with little guards protecting him, the king was merely a fool after all. The man did not care, for his eyes rested on a golden crown below the throne. And while one knight spotted him, he would not join their careless game. Instead, he struck the man, and watched another knight stand before him, ready to weaken the prey. It was not part of the plan, but it worked in his favor. No, his fight would come again, and again, so long as he had the crown on his head and governed the people. So he walked across the room. No one looked to him; no one spotted him; not one person gave so much a thought about him. They all thought he was in the forest somewhere, lost, after giving up the throne to the current king because he was bored with it all.

They thought wrong. He just needed time, and they gladly gave it to him.

So he heard the men that had fought for him before fall to the ground, more blood in the cracks of the floor than ever. Some laid on their sides, while others merely knelt and tried to pull out arrows from their bodies. The king just laughed at the scene, and the man smiled. No, the king was not meant for such a treacherous job, and the man was more than willing to take the crown again. He was not bored; he was rather pleased with it all. The boy wanted to prove he could rule, and from the scene in the room, it was proof he could not, and would never, rule a kingdom. So the man climbed the stairs beside the king, who still had no idea of his presence, and stood behind him. All the knights were on the ground, and the only sounds in the room were of the king’s laughter and the heavy breathing from those who fought ferociously for a crown not meant for them. No, he thought, it was only meant for one, and he smiled.

The king happily sighed. Yes, he thought, he was rather entertained by it all! He couldn’t believe the men in his life who merely wanted the crown for their own glory. It was rather obscene, if he thought about it. He was moments away from declaring a winner—surprisingly enough, it would have been the First King after all—but he felt a presence near. And it was not just any presence, no; it held the most darkness and most corruption in all of the kingdom. It felt heavy, and it felt as though it was just above him. So when he felt the crown leave his head, the material slide up his scalp and away from his body, part of him was not surprised. The other part, however, was terrified.

The king felt a breath against his ear. He did not dare turn around. He knew what would happen if the man was not given what he wanted at that moment in time. He rather liked his head attached to his body. “Give me back my crown,” the voice whispered, as the crown was lifted from his head. The king—no, he thought, he was not the king any longer—stood in fear, frozen at the voice he had just heard. It could not be, he thought. The man was gone, along with his squire! He was no more in the village! The man left the crown for him, and only him, so why was he back? Why was he _back_?

He didn’t know what to do. The king—no, not the king—looked to the doorway, hoping his guardsmen would come up the stairs to warn of an attack, or perhaps storm the throne to save them again. Instead, he noticed the blood trail at the door. Instead, he noted that no man in the battle in the room had been near the door during their fight, and it was no one’s blood but—and so he turned around. He expected to see the man stand right next to him, a crown on his head. Instead, the man was already sitting on the chair at the top, the throne once again soaking up the blood on his body, in his clothes, on his robe, everything. And he watched as the man’s sword dripped in blood, trickling down the stairs to him.

He noticed the man’s eyes—they seemed so empty, almost dead. No, it was the darkness he had seen in all the others, overwhelming their mind about the throne. Only his were more prominent, and he knew why. The man looked the same, with the same clothing covering his body, the same blood (it was new, but in the same places as before) splattered against his body, and the same sword he used to slice through enemies (friends) in battles. He couldn’t believe his very eyes. He started to step back from the man. No, he thought, it was not meant to be. He felt his feet start to walk in the blood in the room, his shoes soaked from the liquid. He only stopped walking back when his second-hand, the Mighty King, weakly asked: “Gavin?”

And Gavin—yes, that was his name, not “king”—looked down and saw a tired warrior. Michael was in no shape to fight. Neither was Geoff next to him, who was struggling to take out an arrow lodged in his upper thigh, struggling to even hold himself up. Gavin even looked toward the other two, and knew they could not fight. Jack was knelt forward, barely breathing (or maybe not breathing at all), while Ray laid on his side, clutching the side of his stomach as blood poured out. He noticed mouths drip with blood, coughing and gasping for air. They had fought their hardest for a throne, a throne that was not theirs in the first place. How could he have forgotten their names? How could he have only given them the titles they were given by the people, and not call them by name? For what reason did he believe it was a game?

He looked up to the throne, and knew he made the biggest mistake in all the land.

Gavin fell to his knees, the blood splashing everywhere, and merely stared at the man on the throne. After all he had done to keep him out, to keep the throne fresh and the kingdom well—he failed. It wasn’t long after that Michael had looked up with him, wondering why he was on the battlefield in the first place, why he was looking toward the throne. Gavin heard what almost sounded like a growl emit from the warrior, and saw him try to rise from the floor. Instead, he stumbled forward and fell back down, crying out in pain as he did so. “You son of a bitch,” he heard the warrior snap, and the others looked to him. Gavin had not seen Michael that angry in such a long time, not since the First King’s deceit and demise. It was almost as though the warrior had an inner beast ready to strike. And when they all saw what the warrior saw, what their last king was looking at, they, too, felt the anger rise again.

“Watch your tongue when you speak to your king, _knight_. You should be lucky you are even alive at all,” the man said from the throne, his voice booming in the room. It was an all too familiar sound. It would strike fear into anyone who was invited into the throne room. It was an invitation no one ever wanted.

“Go to Hell,” the warrior voiced, although the others thought (or mumbled) the exact same phrase. Gavin looked down at the bloody floor, at his blood-stained hands, and wondered how much more would spill. It would continue, would it not? It would _run_ , and it was on his hands. No, Hell was not somewhere else. It was there all along. He looked back up.

The man’s smile grew. “I’d rather bring it here.”

It had not been a long time since the man had had the throne, but it was long enough. Rumors spread as to why he left in the first place, but they were just glad he was gone. The kingdom moved on, was growing back to what it had been before, and was moving forward. But the man knew it was not right for the kingdom. He stayed in the forest, away from anyone who would venture out (rumors were such a nuisance to avoid), to make sure his kingdom was not falling apart. He merely needed to bide time, to bring back hope to the people. No, the kingdom deserved his reign, demanded it return. Sure, it was prosperous, but they did not live in a perfect utopia, not like before. There was too much chaos, not enough control, not enough rule. That, itself, was a disgrace.

All the knights in the room swore their revenge on the man, some accomplishing it before, and would have to swear again to the people of the village that his time would be short-lived, and it would not be long before he was murdered before their very eyes. Would they believe them, after a third reign? Would they even trust the warriors? They knew not. The knights only knew of the proclamations that would be spread like wildfire, and speak of the failures they brought the village themselves.

They knew the people would speak of the horrors about the always Mad King.


End file.
